One of These Mornings
by Regina Demonica
Summary: A prequel to "The Fears of Tomorrow", telling the tale of how Jonathan Crane rose from abused Georgia teen to professional supervillain and comic book star. Set in the 1930s. AU. A Fearsverse story.
1. Jonny Went A-Courting

**This story is a shorter prequel to "The Fears of Tomorrow" further exploring the history of Jonathan Crane as he appears in the Fearsverse. While incorporating aspects of various comics, this is extremely AU and only fits in Fearsverse continuity, although it can stand alone when read.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, everything belongs to their rightful owners. I'm just borrowing.**

* * *

**One of These Mornings**

_Thou call'dst me dog before thou hadst a cause;_

_But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs._

_- _William Shakespeare, _The Merchant of Venice_

* * *

**Chapter I: Jonny Went A-Courting**

**Arlen, Georgia, 1935**

The boy scurried out the schoolhouse door like a rat, almost seeming to stagger on his long limbs, darting to a tree. Knowing how and where to hide was of vital importance to him. His thin body let him slink behind it before he hunched against the bark and pulled a book from his beaten brown satchel. They'd be coming along soon enough. With a little luck he could manage to get a few paragraphs of _Hop-Frog_ in before his class arrived. Rummaging a little deeper, he grabbed an apple taken from a tree back home. He bit into it, savoring the juice and chewing as he read. Within a quarter of an hour he'd reduced it to a core, tossing it aside for some lucky squirrel. Today was a good day. He heard shouts and slid the book back into his satchel, getting up.

"Hey!" shouted the tallest of the newcomers, waving. "Hey, there! Jon! Jon Crane!" He waved back, slipping out from safety. He trusted these people, and knew them all. Many of them were the children of Arlen's poor. As part of his distancing himself from his great-grandmother, he walked among people who no one else in his social class would. He was poor himself. It was easy enough to tell from his too-big clothes, hanging off of his skin, and the wire glasses which made him look like an oversized, starved owl. Each child offered him a little treat - a peach, a few dollars, a book, a few slices of bread. He put most of them away except for the peach, which he decided to have for dessert.

The meal didn't fill him up very much, but it silenced his growling stomach. Besides, just having food in his belly was a blessing. It all too often went empty. Grateful, he opened up his satchel and took out a pencil and a set of textbooks.

"Right, then," he said, channeling his inner professor, snatching up a fallen stick and pointing it at an imaginary chalkboard. "What are we doing today, then? Reading? Writing? 'Rithmetic?"

"Reading," said one of the children, a girl, raising her hand. "I'd like you to teach me my letters, Mister Crane."

Jonathan smiled. This was his specialty. "Right." He opened a book, finding the proper place. "How much do you already know?"

"Not much," she said shyly, nervous speaking to the older boy. "I know A, B, and that's it."

He nodded, showing her a design on the page and a picture. "Now, listen closely. The letter after B is C. C as in _cat_." He pointed to the picture of a fat old tabby on the yellowing page.

"Cat," she told him, her voice quivering a little.

"Good work! Now, what letter comes after B?"

"C."

Jonathan gave a warm grin, shaking her hand. "Well done, Grace. You're quite the student. Now for the next letter, D. D is the letter after C and before E. D is for _dog_..."

* * *

After class, Jonathan watched as his students dispersed, slinging the satchel over his shoulder. He'd had a good haul, and he felt happy in helping fellow unfortunates. He'd have to go home eventually, of course, and face the wrath of Great-Granny Keeny, but it was such a warm day that he felt like taking the risk. He had few pleasures in his life, but lying underneath a tree with a book was the finest of them. He felt like one of the rat snakes he loved to watch so much, lounging in the sun and letting it wash over him. He set off to go, but heard a female voice cry out.

"Wait!"

He whirled round, genuinely startled. There was a girl running to the tree, roughly his age, with eyes as blue as his and pretty brown hair. He'd never had much interest in girls, but that was mostly because he wasn't exactly desirable - towering over most of the other students, skinny as a handrail, with tangled black hair that looked like it hadn't been combed in months, which was fairly close to the truth. Due to years of bullying he was naturally wary of children his age, but she seemed kind. It would be only fair to give her a chance. He suddenly realized how repulsive he must look to her - covered in dirt, a few leaf fragments in his hair, torn clothes.

"H-hello," he began, stepping a few paces back. "Who are you? What do you want?"

She laughed, but it wasn't cruel laughter from the sound of it. "You're Jonathan Crane, aren't you? I was just watching you teach those poor backwoods children. You sound like quite the teacher. They certainly like you."

He gave a laugh of his own, but a quiet one. He didn't like feeling so self-aware, especially in front of girls. "T-thank you, ma'am. And you are?"

"Sherry Squires. My father lives in the manor in the next town over. I've heard of you, but I've never gotten a chance to speak to you. You must be very generous to help them. Most people think they aren't worth a spit."

Jonathan sighed. "We're not that d-different. I'm not exactly high society myself. Look at my c-c-clothes." Inside, however, his heart was pounding like mad, so loudly that he knew she could hear it. He knew who she was, too. She was the daughter of Elliot Squires, the mayor of the town she lived in, as high up as someone in their rural community could get. She shouldn't even be talking to him - bastard child, living scarecrow, bookworm that he was. He was the lowest of the low. At least most of the poor boys and girls he taught had loving families at home that they could go to. Not him.

"Doesn't matter what your clothes look like. It's what's inside that counts." She gently poked him in the chest, and he flinched. "So, I'd like to pay you off for helping them. What do you say to a little ice cream?"

Jonathan licked his lips. He did love ice cream, at least the little bit he'd managed to have. "T-thank you," he told her, bowing politely. "I have to be home by seven, though, or G-g-granny gets angry at me." He hated his stutter, although it only came out when he was afraid, which was often.

"I can manage that. Come on, Jonathan. Do you want ice cream or not?"

"C-c-course I do."

"Do you have anywhere to go? Friends to play with?"

He kicked a rock. "I d-don't have any. Friends, I mean."

She gave a warm smile, and for the first time in fifteen years he felt a flicker of hope. "Well, then we'll have to change that."

So he came with her, and she bought him a few scoops of vanilla ice cream, which he ate at a table outside the stand. "I heard your great-granny's mad," she told him, fiddling with her own spoon.

"She is," he said through a mouthful of ice cream. She laughed and, startled, he swallowed, feeling the cold lump slide into his stomach. "Completely insane. I know it's a sin to say this, but I can't wait until she dies. When she does, that manor of hers will belong to _me_. I'm the only male heir left, with my father drinking like a fish in Atlanta and my mother God-knows-where."

"Can't blame you, being raised by a witch like that." He nodded grimly, taking another spoonful. "Tell you what, how about I talk to you tomorrow, after your lessons? I'd be happy to learn more about you. You're a kind boy, whatever they say."

He froze, and this time it wasn't the ice cream. "What do they say?" He knew they talked about him behind his back, of course; everything they said about his life since birth was a mix of half-truths and mean-spirited gossip.

"That you're strange. Jonny Crane plays with snakes, holds them and lets the awful things twine 'round his arms. Never gets bit, either. Has a way with them. Some people even say that he _talks_ to them."

"That's just silly." Jonathan laughed. "You can't believe everything people say. Snakes aren't bad! Out on the fields, they help us by eating the mice who take our corn. I had to stop that Griggs boy from bashing one's head in. If you treat snakes with respect, they won't bite you. It's that simple. I can teach you how to handle one, if you'd like."

Sherry shuddered with disgust. "No, thank you."

He shrugged. He'd expected as much. "Suit yourself."

After he finished his ice cream, he decided to go back home, thanking Sherry for the treat. Well, wasn't today a lucky day! Three scoops of tasty vanilla ice cream, a potential friendship with the mayor's daughter - maybe there was some hope for him yet.

Not even Granny and her crows could ruin his day now.

* * *

For someone who'd raised him since he'd taken his first stumbling steps, Jonathan didn't know much about Mary Keeny. He knew just enough of what he'd been told and pieced together from family records. She'd been married once, a long time ago. She'd been around when the Keenys were one of the richest families in Georgia. They were wealthy farmers and collectors of rare birds, owners of a magnificent aviary, the greatest in the state. Then her husband had been killed in battle during the Lincoln war. The family's fortunes had failed. The birds were sold or shot and the aviary emptied into a chapel. Her son had tried to find his fortune in Atlanta, but found drink and misery instead. One day, he came back to the barn loft of the family home, got a rope, and she found him dangling there in the morning. By all accounts, she had _changed_ that day.

Ever since then, she'd turned to religion, but it had turned her cold and bitter. She'd been cruel to her granddaughter Karen Keeny - of course the girl had affairs, who wouldn't in that kind of environment! But seeing her failure to keep Karen to heel, her efforts redoubled for Jonathan. Everything in his life was controlled. He couldn't eat unless told to, was restricted from any book but the holy texts, and he was under no circumstances to go in the cellar.

It could have been worse. His grandmother, Marion, a bitter, savage old lady who'd lived through two husbands and several children, wanted the baby taken to the river and thrown in. Better yet, he could be allowed to play there, only no one would pull him out when he inevitably fell and drowned. It had happened before. Many Arlen families had lost children to the water. The river was fast and could easily wash away a struggling infant. Karen, standing up for the baby, refused to hear of the idea.

"Blame me all you want, but don't hurt him," she'd said, clasping him protectively. He hadn't understood the danger he was in, sitting up and sucking his pinky finger.

"It won't hurt the little brat," Marion had snapped. "He'll die quickly. Just like going to sleep."

But he hadn't died, because Mary, the family matriarch, had vouched for him. It hadn't been love that motivated her to join Karen in saving his life. Karen couldn't afford to raise a child, while she could. She agreed to hand him over. As soon as he could walk, the boy was put to work. All he was useful for was slave labor. Out in the cornfields, working until his back turned red and raw and oozed pus, fetching eggs from the coop instead of having breakfast - she seemed to take a sadistic delight in seeing him suffer. His clothes were dirty and ragged, his hair unbrushed and wild. Even his name was a hand-me-down - "Jonathan" was the name of her first son, who'd been born dead.

Worse yet, because of what he was, she despised him. He was a child of sin, she told him. Cursed by birth. Nothing good could come of such a child. His mother a dissolute wastrel, his father a disowned member of the Arlen Cranes, another degraded old family. From what Jonathan knew, Gerald Crane wasn't a naturally cruel man - on the night their son had been concieved, despite his drunkenness, he'd genuinely loved her. His cowardice had overcome love, though. He and his wife had fled to Atlanta on the very night Jonathan was born, presumably to hide that there was living evidence of his affair, leaving Karen and the baby alone.

It wasn't only her. Most of the town looked at him as something that scarcely had a right to exist. It was hard to keep secrets in a small town, and Karen's activities were notorious. The rougher boys at the local schoolhouse knew that he was fair game, near the very bottom rung of the Arlen social ladder. A symbol of the dissolution and rot that poisoned two families. He did well in his lessons, of course - top marks in science, mathematics and English. That made it even worse. Stolen lunch money, spitballs, and jabs to the ribcage were the least of the things he had to put up with. Visiting his secret places outside town boundaries, out in nature, was his only deliverance.

But Jonathan wanted to live. He had to live. It was his way of proving everyone in his family wrong - Mary for torturing him, Marion for wanting him dead, his parents for abandoning him, even his little half-sister. Although she was only a gurgling baby, she had a better life than her starving, tormented half-brother. He wondered if she knew he even existed. This determination kept him from going to the barn, finding some rope, and doing what his grandfather did. On his darkest days, he wondered what she'd think if she went and saw him swinging there. Would she be reminded of Grandfather Keeny's death and wish she'd treated him fairly, or would she just throw the small body in the family plot and think of it as one less mouth to feed?

Naturally, the forbidden cellar was one of his favorite places to be. There was a library there underground, a wonderous place, and he started to indulge his appetite for reading. He developed a great liking for the dark masters. Poe was a favorite, as were Lord Dunsany and Arthur Machen. On lighter moods, he'd read Twain or Shakespeare. He didn't understand how Granny Keeny could deny him such a treat. After all, _she_ was allowed to read. Why wasn't he?

If he defied her, there was danger. Besides her restrictiveness, Great-Granny took a sadistic glee in creative punishments. Besides the usual sending Jonathan to bed without supper, she had a unique and especially cruel ritual. Whenever she caught him doing something she deemed "sinful" - which was more-or-less anything he found fun - she would force him to find the clothes he wore for church and drag him there for the night. This was bad enough, but the cruel twist was that a nest of crows roosted there, and on seeing the young intruder they'd swoop on him and peck and claw him until he bled, running to the door and begging for mercy.

It was war between them, and he wasn't totally defenseless. For his part, he had three major weapons in the fight.

Books were his first method of rebellion. He read everything he could get his hands on, whether from libraries, school, borrowed from other students, or snatched from the forbidden library. He delighted in it, and a rebellious fire was kindled up in him. He rode the Mississippi with Huck Finn, sympathized with Shelley's lonely, intellectual monster, shivered along with another famous Jonathan at Stoker's famous vampire. He bought science fiction and horror magazines in the neighboring town, graduating to superhero comics. He knew that comics were filmed far away, in California, as far from his home as it was possible to go.

The second method of rebellion was more subtle. To get over her restriction of food, he'd simply take what he needed. He became an expert in moving in the shadows. Darkness meant safety to him. He would raid the pantry, grabbing and squirreling away to his room anything he could carry. He would take eggs from the chicken coop, soaking them in vinegar to remove the shell before eating them. Pieces of pie and slices of bread would disappear overnight. A good meal was always a pleasure for him, especially since his thievery was also spitting in Great-Granny's eye. He'd always make sure to make it seem as if rats had gotten in, to keep her off his track.

The third was music. Instead of the hymms he was forced to sing, he delighted in swing and jazz, everything Great-Granny condemned as decadent and sinful. Whenever Granny was out to town, he'd whip out a secretly purchased phonograph, grab a record, and let it rip. He wasn't a good singer, but he didn't particularly notice or care.

There weren't any battles that night. She was asleep when he got home, and he was tired. He removed the satchel's contents, slung it on a chair, and crept into his room like a silent shadow. Once there, he flung himself on his bed, grabbed his old stuffed bear for comfort, and whispered into the bag of stuffing's ear:

"The mayor's daughter's my friend, Bear! We're going to be free!"

Bear, as usual, held his silence, but the boy hugged him anyway. Quiet, peaceful, and in agreement with anything Jonathan said, old one-eared Bear was the perfect secret-keeper.


	2. Beauty and the Beast

**Chapter II: Beauty and the Beast**

_Oh, there is hope, an infinite amount of hope, but not for us._

_- _Attributed to Franz Kafka

In the morning, Jonathan was, as usual, woken up when it was still dark and shoved outside to gather eggs from the chicken coop. There were worse chores. At least the chickens were tame enough that they didn't peck or scratch. It would be a misconception to say that Jonathan was afraid of all birds - only the ones big enough to harm him or if they were in large numbers. He wasn't afraid of the hens. They milled around as he entered the coop, stooping to get through the door. The place was a mess of down and feathers, the sound of clucking in his ears. He shuffled through them, trying not to tread on them or crack any eggs. He reached into an unguarded nest, placing four eggs in a basket. One egg, however, was slipped into his back pocket. It wouldn't be much, but it would make a fine breakfast if he wasn't caught.

He moved on to the next nest, only to be startled by a sudden hiss. A black snake was in the nest, and on seeing Jonathan it slithered away through a crack in the coop. This was just as well; although Jonathan was friendly to snakes, Granny Keeny despised them, both as egg thieves and as creatures of the Devil. Any snake in the family chicken coop was in danger of ending up a headless corpse, left for the hens to eat. As Jonathan saw it, though, he had a bit of a kinship with the creatures. As he saw it, both boy and snakes were just trying to eke out a living.

After gathering a few more, he came indoors, throat tightening. If he was caught with an egg for himself, his game would be up, and he would probably recieve an especially vicious punishment. Before facing his great-grandmother, he slipped the egg underneath a cup. He could come back for it once her guard was down.

She was old enough to see fire in Georgia and the death of her husband Hiram Keeny, who hung in portrait form beside her rocking chair. In full military uniform, his bayonet at his side, he looked every bit as firm as his wife. Some of his facial features were like Jonathan's, and his hair was black beneath his cap, but those were the only similarities his great-grandson saw.

She swayed quietly, the only sound in the house the creaking of the wood. She was as withered as a witch in a fairy tale, but strong for all that. It was as if old griefs and grudges animated the carcass from within and lit flames behind those watery, pale blue eyes. She got up from the chair, grabbing her walking-stick and glaring at the cowering boy.

"I h-h-have the eggs," he said, putting the basket on the table. She tensed, as if seeing how afraid he was.

"You're hiding something. I can see it in your eyes."

Jonathan tried not to panic. He didn't have anything on him. If she searched him, he wouldn't get in trouble. "No, I'm n-not."

"Turn out your pockets, boy," she ordered, and Jonathan obeyed. Nothing was inside but a little bit of change and a torn piece of paper. She grumbled, but stepped aside. "Remember, Jonathan, thieves are an abomination before God."

"Yes, G-g-granny," he said hurriedly. When she returned to dozing on her rocking chair, he grabbed his breakfast from under the cup, poured out some vinegar, and carried the whole thing to his room, hiding it in a closet to soak the shell away. Today had been close. He'd have to be more careful - she was growing suspicious. He might have to go without breakfast for a few days until she calmed down. When the egg was ready, fifteen minutes before school was due to start, he took it out and ate it, yolk and all, before setting off. It wasn't much, but it was enough.

* * *

Thankfully, school itself passed without too much trouble. The bullying seemed unusually muted. The worst thing that happened was that he found his missing copy of _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_ in Jason Greene's desk. He wasn't one to complain about good luck, but he spent most of the day expecting _something_ to happen. It wasn't like the bullies to leave him alone, and his natural worry was that they were planning something big. He tried to cover up his fear during lessons.

He was pleased to see that he got the top score on the chemistry test. It wasn't surprising. His teacher commented afterward that Jonathan seemed to have a natural talent for chemistry - not that it did him any good outside of the classroom. If anything, it made him seem even more strange.

Thankfully, after school things would get much better. Jonathan was due to meet Sherry Squires, and, sure enough, as soon as the bell rang he was out the door and hunched behind the tree, watching the other students leave. Sherry was one of the last out, followed by a boy Jonathan recognized. He tensed; it was Boone Griggs, a broad-shouldered, brown-haired boy who particularly enjoyed harassing the "scarecrow". He was, in fact, the one responsible for the nickname - which, as luck would have it, stuck. Not wanting to interact with Bo, Jonathan cringed. He couldn't make out much of what Sherry was saying, but he could hear what Bo had to say quite well.

"Don't tell me you're startin' to feel sorry for the runt. It's just a joke. We wanna have a little fun with him, that's all."

As if noticing that someone was listening in, he whispered something in her ear, and Jonathan slammed against the tree. Why was Sherry talking to Bo? Maybe she didn't know how cruel the older boy was to him. That must be it. He swallowed hard. Something about this made him very uneasy. Maybe Bo was threatening Sherry, in which case it was his duty as her friend to defend her. He wouldn't put that past the brute. Like the Squires family, Bo's family enjoyed a lot of local power, which gave Bo some protection despite his often brutal treatment of Jonathan and other children.

Bloodlines were everything in Arlen, at least among the old Southern lines. The Keenys, the Griggses, even the Cranes, took a lot of pride in their heritage. Jonathan's Keeny blood gave him no protection from his own family. As an illegitimate child, he was an embarrassment. Marion, whenever she came over to the manor, held to her belief that the baby should have been dealt with as a spare litter of puppies. Jonathan shuddered to think how she'd treated her own children, one of them his mother. He wondered if she was always that heartless, or if, like Great-Granny, something had twisted her.

Bo, on the other hand, was from a good lineage with properly blessed and married parents, inexplicable popularity with everyone at school but his victims, and, admittedly, was good-looking. Jonathan loathed him, and not only because the boy was known to stop him on the way to school and demand lunch money. He didn't understand how someone so horrible could have friends, while he found himself helpless and alone. At last Bo, face red, left Sherry alone, and Jonathan dared to come out from behind the tree. He gave a friendly wave, and she seemed surprised to see him.

"Hello, Jonathan."

Jonathan sighed. It would be better to find out the truth quickly. "Why were you talking to Bo Griggs?"

Sherry's eyes were uncomfortable, making Jonathan even more suspicious. "He's become, well, interested in me in the past few days."

"Don't you know how horrible he is towards the weaker children? Half my students say that Bo's stolen money from them. He's one of the beasts who steals from me when I come to school. He's a bully, Miss Squires, plain and simple." Jonathan took a breath to calm himself down. Just thinking about Bo made him uncomfortably angry. "You deserve _better_ than him."

"I'll tell him not to do it, if you'd like," she said, sitting down beside him. "He's not really a bad boy, just rough."

"Please do. Tell him to leave my class alone while you're at it." Jonathan looked behind himself nervously, as if expecting Bo to come charging at him. "Can we please talk about something a little more... pleasant?"

"Sure. I told you that I had something to ask you today."

Jonathan smiled, straightening. "More ice cream? I'm starved."

Sherry shook her head, and he slouched a little. "I'd like to see the place where you go after school. Next to the river. It must be very beautiful. I'll get you something from the ice cream stand and we can have it there. It's a very nice day."

Perking up, Jonathan turned to look at the sky. Solid blue, without the whisp of a cloud. Sherry was right - it was a lovely day, and he had some time before Great-Granny would go after him. Even better, he could visit with a friend. His smile turned into a toothy grin, all thoughts of Boone Griggs out of his head. "Why, thank you. I'm the only boy who knows the way. None of the others care enough to look. It's my secret place, where I can go and be left alone." He coughed slightly. "I'd usually be careful about showing it to other people, but I've decided that you're one of the nice ones."

She blinked, surprised. "I'm glad you trust me. I'm sorry that Bo gives you such a hard time. You really don't deserve it. Why, I've never seen you hurt anybody. Why do they hate you so much?"

Jonathan winced, grabbing a rock and clasping it to help himself feel better. "I think part of it's because, well, I'm not _like_ them. Look at me. Thin as a twig. I've tried to put on a bit of weight, I really have, but nothing sticks. I like to be by myself, I read a lot, and I have better things to do than dress up for their silly parties. I couldn't afford better clothes anyway." He sat on a tree stump. "Then there's the fact that my parents weren't, well, married when they had me. I know you're from another town, but I wouldn't be surprised if the story got there. I'm a walking scandal." He laughed slightly, tossing the stone against the tree. "Don't worry yourself sick about me. I'll live. With you around, I have another reason to."

"You could try to be like the other boys," Sherry suggested, and Jonathan shrugged.

"But I'm _not_ like them. Nothing I do can ever change that, Miss Squires. I can't change who my parents were. I just have to make do with what I have, and I'll be fine. Great-Granny's a very old woman. Mean as she is, she can't live forever." Jonathan rummaged around in his satchel. "Here. Have a peach. I picked it on my way to school for you. Consider it thanks for the ice cream you gave me yesterday."

She was surprisingly reluctant to accept it, but he carefully placed it in her hand. "Thank you, Jonathan."

"'Welcome. See, even a wild boy like me has hospitality." Jonathan gave another laugh, this time bitterly. "So, would you like to get going? Remember, I have to be home by seven."

"I know," Sherry said. "I've heard awful things about your great-grandmother. There are folks in Arlen who say that, ever since her son Richard Keeny died, something's changed in the family." She stood up, surprising Jonathan. "I'll be buying the ice cream for you. Stay right by that tree stump."

Jonathan gave a jerky nod in agreement. "I'll be sure to." While waiting, he decided to amuse himself by taking out his rescued copy of _Huckleberry Finn_. While, admittedly, Twain didn't fit his usual tastes, he had deep sympathy for Huck. To begin with, both of them had abusive parent figures. While Huck's mother was dead rather than disappeared, his father was one of the most appalling characters Jonathan had ever read about - beating and insulting his son, using Huck's money to buy alcohol, even kidnapping him. While he didn't set wild birds on Huck, he was right up there with Granny Keeny.

When Sherry came back with a bowl of ice cream, chocolate this time, Jonathan put the book back in his satchel and stood up. "Ready to go, then? I'm set when you are." She handed the bowl to him, and he curiously sampled it. "Pretty good. Vanilla's my favorite flavor, but this isn't bad at all. Thank you, Miss Squires." He bowed, almost doubling over, and she laughed.

"Why, you're quite the gentleman!"

"One of the few good things about Great-Granny," Jonathan said with a twisted smile, "is that she taught me manners." He dusted himself off a little, scraping some leaves from his hair. "Let's be off."

* * *

Jonathan led Sherry along his secret path to the river, urging her on. "Right this way. Don't worry about the leaves, they'll wash off easily enough. It's only a little farther now." He knew the way well, so his feet were quick, his usually awkward gait causing no problems. Instead, it was Sherry who struggled. He guessed that it was because she was venturing this far outside town boundaries for the first time. "Come on. Watch the rocks." He nimbly scurried up a rocky slope, waiting above while she followed him.

"Well, you were right about how far from Arlen this place is."

"It's beautiful, if you ask me. You can see across the river, all the way to the other side." He squinted, seeing the forms of houses. "That's the town you're from, if I've got my geography right. It was never my strong point. I'm more of a chemist myself." Jonathan sprang down from the rocks, landing squarely on both feet. "Come on down. It's perfectly safe - it's only a couple feet. You can jump." Sherry heard, joining Jonathan. "See? That wasn't so bad now, was it? Now, I have something to show you. Come to the water's edge."

They sat there for a while, Crane gobbling up his ice cream so quickly that some chocolate stained his face. With no napkin around, he used the edge of his shirt to clean it off. It was grimy enough already. She giggled, and, although hurt for a moment, he realized how silly he looked and joined in.

"So, what do you think of your old Great-Granny? My ma says she's a witch. Does awful things with herbs, brews evil potions with them. It's an old rumor. No one really gives it the time of day."

"All rumors," Jonathan quoted, "have a grain of truth. All I know is that she's a wicked old lady, magic powers or not. She's a religious witch, if she is one. If you ask me, I think it's because Grandpa died. He was a sturdy man, he was, but life broke him. Hung himself in our barn. She never figured out why, and it broke her, too. The Keeny house is full of broken people."

"So you feel sorry for her?"

Jonathan shook his head firmly. "No. Even back when the family's fortunes were good, we made our money off corn and cotton. The blood and sweat of innocent people. Despite all of her airs, there was never a noble house of Keeny. We were always wicked. Back then, she was rich and cruel. Today, she's poor and cruel." He laughed deep in his throat. "I'm not a Keeny. I'm a Crane. Why do you think I have my father's name? They more or less disowned me. So _I_ disowned _them_."

"The Cranes don't like Gerald. He gave them a bad name with his love of moonshine. I heard they were very happy when he left town, so they'd probably hate his son even more." Sherry grabbed a stick and snapped it in two. "My parents always told me not to play with the Keeny boy."

Jonathan's laugh turned into a cackle. "That makes two rebels. Stay, Miss Squires, and I'll teach you how to be wicked and wild, like me. Would you like to learn how to climb trees? Catch fish? Frighten sparrows?"

"Tree-climbing sounds good, but it's almost six. You'll have to go home soon. Why don't we just rest by the stream for a little while and talk for a bit? How often do you come here?" Sherry leaned against the dirt, not caring about the mess. Jonathan smiled. She was learning fast for Elliot Squires's daughter.

"Every day, if I can make it. You're welcome back - I'll be happy to show you around some time in the future. It's a nice place to go whenever I've had a hard day at school and need some peace and quiet."

"Thank you for the offer, Jonathan," she said, getting up and startling him. He guessed that she had to go home, too. "I'd like to thank you properly for all of your kindness. Wait for me here, by the river. I'd like to have a private word with you."

"Why not now?" he asked. "We're alone."

She sighed, wringing her fingers a little and looking away from him. "My father wants me back home early. He got upset when I spent all that time with you yesterday."

"Well, if you have to go, well, I'd like to thank you for letting me guide you out here. No one's ever b-b-been kind to me b-before." He nodded, offering a brief but sincere smile. "I was right. You're one of the nice ones." He got up, standing on the rocks. "I'm a boy of my word, Miss Squires. I'll meet you here tomorrow after school."

With a sound of scuffling, Jonathan was up and over the wall, disappearing into the woods. He knew them well, and would be able to make it home before seven easily enough. He was in such a hurry to avoid Great-Granny's anger that he didn't notice Sherry hunched over the riverside, staring into the water.


End file.
